Heartbreak and Triumph: Missing Chapters
by Tsumi-Amethyst
Summary: Shawn Michaels and HHH argue, and HBK decides it's his time to leave. But before he goes, he asks Cena to deliver a package to HHH... The missing chapters of Heartbreak & Triumph. HBK x HHH, Cena x Orton.
1. Prologue

Tsumi – Amethyst: This will be a multi-chapter story, and the rating is for adult themes, swearing and yummy yaoi. If you can't handle the thought of two men going at it, then I suggest you turn back NOW. For those still left, hello! I hope that you enjoy this here story. Lemme know how I'm doing!! XD

Shawn Michaels knocked tentatively on the door to Vince McMahon's office. It was late, and almost everyone had left the arena, which would make this ordeal easier for him to handle. He inhaled shakily, and the moment he did it, he regretted it, and considered turning away there and then. The oxygen boost had gone to his head and, as a result, had caused him to think twice about this.

What was he thinking? Could this not be resolved without the Chairman's involvement? Was Shawn simply overreacting, like he had said?

Just when Shawn was about to leave, Vince answered his door. He was, as anticipated, wearing a tailored grey suit, with smart black shoes that shone in the artificial lights. Shawn said nothing, and did nothing to suggest that he had acknowledged Vince's presence.

Vince considered Shawn in silence before stepping aside to let him in. The Heartbreak Kid saw him peer out of his door, checking to see that no one would eavesdrop on them, and the man sighed.

He felt almost as if he was dreaming, as if this wasn't and shouldn't be happening. He could barely feel the throb of the bruise on his cheek, the roughness of his palms, and the softness of one of Vince's chairs. Although he was quite aware of what was happening, the man felt almost as if it were someone else looking through his eyes, and when Vince spoke, the sound was hushed.

"What seems to be the problem, Shawn?" Asked Vince, clasping his hands together and placing them onto his desk. His voice was light, vacant of the usual roughness that it held when performing.

Shawn looked up at Vince and, for once, regretted their close friendship. It would only make this harder for him.

"I love my job," He blurted, some of his hearing coming back. "And wrestling is the only thing that I've ever known how to do."

Vince blinked, taken aback. He hadn't been expecting this at all. He again, regarded Shawn closely, before speaking:

"Shawn," The chairman cleared his throat, leaning forward, "We've been friends for quite some time. You've never knocked on my door before, and I've never asked you to. Has something happened?"

Shawn smiled weakly, though it didn't quite meet with his eyes.

"You could say that Vince." Shawn admitted quietly. He fiddled with his hands for a moment, unable to meet Vince's intent stare. "And that's why I want to thank you for your support and close friendship. It's been… A privilege that many have never had, and I feel sorry for them. It's helped to make my job even better."

Vince allowed him to say this without interruption, smiling and nodding his head to show that he appreciated the man's kind words.

"But I've learned the hard way that great things always come to an abrupt finish… And that's why I'm here tonight."

Shawn glanced up at his boss, flashing him another weak smile.

"Vincent Kennedy McMahon, I've come here to ask that I be released from my contract and discharged from the Raw Roster."

Tsumi – Amethyst: I know it's very short, but I just want to know if anyone thinks that this will be worth continuing. It's sort of like a Prologue. And yes, this will be a yaoi, which means the pairings involved will be: Shawn x HHH, Orton x Cena, and maybe Jeff x Matt. But the main pairing will be HBK and HHH. Please review me!!


	2. Chapter 1: If Only

Tsumi – Amethyst: Hey guys! Thank you so much for your lovely reviews! You're so encouraging and kind… You've motivated me to write this pretty quickly. My new year's resolution is that if I go a month without writing anything, then I suck. :P Anyway, here's the new chapter!!

"It's all right, just get it all out," Edge reassured the trembling man beneath him, tying back his golden hair. "You'll feel much better in the morning."

Randy winced. Just how Edge could stand beside a retching man and not do so himself was beyond his understanding. Then again, Randy would rather go through another feud with the Undertaker than be sick himself. He sighed, and set about making Triple H's bed for him again.

The tag team of Rated RKO had wrestled with DX earlier that evening in the main event, and had been forced to do so again but an hour ago, for less enjoyable reasons. Remembering something, Randy checked his right arm again for any signs of bruising, but found none. It would do him no good to have his looks ruined by a purple, sensitive mass on his arm, or a cut beneath his left eye… Speaking of which… Randy checked the mirror on the opposite wall. There was a slight scratch; it would be gone long before he would next have to perform.

"Here, drink some water, you need to replace your fluids…" Edge said from the bathroom, and Randy heard the sound of water being ran.

"I don't care about no fuckin' fluids!!" Came the sharp retort, and the sound of somebody spitting. "Don't care… No more…"

Edge sighed. "I'm just trying to help."

"Don't!!"

The bathroom door burst open, and in staggered a fatigued Triple H. He blinked rapidly and didn't seem to recognise his surroundings. His dark eyes stared in wonderment at the Hotel room for a moment, until they landed on the nearby bed, where Randy was standing, warily.

"Bed… Fuckin'… Tired…" Triple H started to walk, but instead lunged forwards, tripping over a stray shoe, and before Randy could move, his head had struck the side of the wooden bed frame.

"Fuckin'… fuck…"

Randy groaned and rushed to the man's side, wrinkling his nose. The man smelled strongly of whiskey and vomit. He turned the Game over and examined his forehead. There were no visible cuts, but there would be one hell of a lump and bruise in the morning. With a bit of luck, it would have gone before the next edition of Raw. Nevertheless, Vince would be furious when he found out about this incident, and Randy knew from past experiences. He touched the injured area gingerly with his fingers, and Triple H groaned beneath him.

"He's knocked out," Randy announced, drawing back from the man so that he could breathe. "So I guess _you'll_ have to get him into bed." He stressed especially the word 'you'll.'

At this, Edge started, the role of being a concerned friend slipping back into the usual impatient, argumentative one that most people never saw past. And as much of a shame that that was, it made Randy feel somewhat privileged to know that he, amongst a select group of others, had seen past Edge's character. He knew Edge as a character, and Edge as Adam Copeland, when he was a regular guy, who had, contrary to popular belief, real feelings.

"Me? Why the hell should I do it, I just stayed with him whilst he was throwing up, for Christ's sake."

"Don't let Shawn hear you say that," Randy muttered under his breath, before summoning his remaining strength to argue with his tag team partner.

"But the smell of sick is starting to make me ill," He whined, "And you don't want me to be ill now, right?"

"At this precise moment, yes, I do," Edge said listlessly, forcing his arms beneath Triple H's limp form. "But fine, go back to Cena already, I'll stay with the big guy 'til morning." The man grunted as he wrenched Triple H's body off the floor, dropping him onto the bed as he heard a bone in his back crack.

Randy blushed at Edge's bluntness, but scurried out of the room anyway. The stench of vomit had burned into his skin, and he felt dirty. He left the hotel room and walked along the corridor, past the room he was supposed to be staying in, and pressed the button on the elevator. Within a few minutes, he was three floors up from where he had just been, and had just swiped his card key for room 619 into the slot. Randy stepped inside.

For a moment, there was no sound to be heard. Then, the bathroom door creaked and out stepped John.

Randy said nothing, but rushed over into John's arms all the same, fatigued. The warmth and security that he felt in John's arms were just what he needed after being involved in such a brutal evening.

"How is he, baby?" John whispered, breaking the silence. His hands rubbed Randy's back soothingly, his lips brushing his lover's ear.

Randy nuzzled the side of John's neck - A gesture to show he appreciated the attention. "Not good," He answered truthfully, sighing, "He was sick from the time he got back in the room 'til the time he banged his head on the bed. It was horrible."

"Is he hurt?"

"He'll get a few bruises and a lump, but in the morning he'll have taken too many painkillers to notice."

John smiled and pulled back a bit, holding his boyfriend at arm's length. He checked for any signs of bruising, and felt a slight ripple of anger at the sight of the one, but banished the feelings immediately. It had been Randy's decision to intervene, and he had paid the price. Nevertheless, John hated seeing Randy being hurt. It was only natural, after all, for a man to be protective of his partner.

Especially when the after effects could have been avoided.

Randy glanced to the side of John uneasily. He knew what John was doing and had seen a flash of resentment in his eyes when he saw the scratch and bruises. If Randy had been in his character mode, he would have sarcastically congratulated John on his achievement. He was now more self-conscious than ever.

John curled his fingers beneath Randy's chin and nudged his face up so their eyes would meet.

"You're beautiful," John whispered, pulling him closer and pressing his lips against Randy's before he could be reprimanded. He pulled Randy flush against him, feeling him go limp in his arms. Randy whimpered as John's tongue plundered his mouth over and over, a hand sliding down his back to squeeze his ass tightly, the other holding him close. He felt the press of John's erection against his thigh, the hardness of his chest against his splayed fingers…

"How about I take your mind off Paul for a bit?" John murmured, nibbling on Randy's lower lip, his eyes half-lidded.

The younger man moaned in reply.

**(Meanwhile…)**

Vince gaped at Shawn, his face locked in bewilderment as the Heartbreak Kid's eyes gazed sombrely into his own.

"I know that we had big plans for DX in the upcoming months, but I just don't feel happy doing this anymore. The travelling, the people… It's become too much for me." Shawn continued, remorsefully, "I don't think that the fans will miss me."

Vince closed his eyes rapidly. He could not be hearing this. Him and Shawn had always been close, and could confide in each other for just about everything, from future angles, to other people's tantrums. Over the years, Vince had even gone out of his way – Something that other Chairman's would never do - to arrange frequent meetings with Shawn, to go over upcoming events; to discuss the creative side of things. He trusted Shawn completely, and had hoped that he returned the faith, and this was why he was so shaken.

"But Shawn," Vince started, his mind focusing once more, "Your motto ten years ago is the same as it is now: To make the fans scream the loudest for the longest. You have done that since your very early years in this business, and on the occasions where you were forced to retire, never to wrestle again, you broke down in front of me and cried." His voice had risen to a somewhat frustrated crescendo.

"What has gone on?" His voice was husky, as if his throat had tightened.

Shawn flashed his boss another magnificent smile. He had been expecting his boss to counter with that argument, and was well prepared for it.

"My light has gone. That little spark that kept me passionate about wrestling. And now my reason for living has deserted me… Even caused this to happen." Shawn gestured to his bruised cheek, torn between admiring his friend's strength and hating him for what he had caused.

Vince frowned, misinterpreting what his friend meant. But of course, Shawn did not intend upon being clear about anything.

"When you came into this business, you knew that you would get a few knocks. But Shawn, wrestling is not a living thing, and although you love it like you would a woman-" Shawn flinched, "-It can never compare to how a real person can hurt you."

Shawn shook his head sadly. "You don't understand," His eyes fell to the floor, like a child being screamed at. The look of acknowledgement, shame, and reluctance to bear the consequences of his actions. "But there's nothing you can do. I am leaving this company. I can't carry on being who I am… and hurting the way I am."

Vince tried to think of a response for that, but his overworked mind felt like a hollow space, with nothing but panic filling it up. His businessman-like reflexes were, for once, unable to help him.

But for once, the reasons were at least understandable.

"Well, look," Vince managed, at a loss for what to say, "Come back tomorrow and we'll talk this through. And then if we can't sort something out, we'll begin negotiations concerning your contract."

Shawn shook his head. "I can't wait that long. Please, just give me this month's pay and I will be fine. There really is no need to draw this out. The fans will probably not even notice that I've gone. Tell them I've died. Do whatever it takes to make them forget about me."

Vince said nothing. He could not force Shawn to make something big of his sudden urge to leave; no matter how much he wanted, needed to. He eyed the bruise marring the wrestler's features for one moment more, before sighing heavily. With the release of air, he gave away his strength to argue; his ability to present his friend with solid evidence as to why he should not quit the business that he held so truly dear.

"All right, Shawn." Vince said quietly, resignedly.

Shawn took that as his cue to leave. The look of tiredness and sorrow in his boss' eyes meant that he needed to be alone. He rose from his seat, and waited for Vince to do the same. When he did not, he extended his hand anyway.

"Thank you for your time, Mr McMahon."

Vince rose slowly, holding onto his desk for support. His eyes met with Shawn, and for one moment, he almost looked apologetic. It was clear that whilst Shawn still loved wrestling very much, something had stemmed his creative flow. And the Heartbreak Kid would not have reached the point where he was without his imaginative way with moves, finishers, weapons… And ways to bend the rules in his favour.

Vince's hand brushed Shawn's, and they clasped together tightly, in the firm handshake that the latter had made into a sign of being a true man. With a brief nod at Vince, Shawn turned and left the room, a single tear gliding down his cheek as he left the building, unaware of the objects and people that surrounded him, staring at him with accusing eyes, regarding his bruises with amusement.

At last, he would finally be away from the dirt sheets, the lies, and the hatred of those who didn't even know him; the hurtful glares they shot at him.

If only the reason why he could face those things was with him. If only he would apologise, or maybe even act as if he was sorry, but Shawn knew better.

But if for just once, if he could not be stubborn, if he could swallow his pride and admit he was wrong, if only he could cast aside the traits he thought were masculine… If only.

Tsumi – Amethyst: Well. Not much happened in this chapter. I promise, a lot more will happen next time, but this was necessary. It had to happen so that I could be set up perfectly for the next instalment, so that's my excuse, and haven't you heard it all before? D Thank you all so much for reviewing me, I never expected this to get much publicity but now that it has, I solemnly swear to try and make this my best piece of writing yet.


	3. Chapter 2: Unpleasant Rush

Tsumi – Amethyst: Okay, well I promised more action, and there is a lot more of it in this one. I must thank you all for spending your time reading this and thinking enough of it to submit reviews. Without you, this chapter would not exist:P It's always nice to know that your ideas are likable. Anyway, here's the chapter!!

There was no development to the pounding sensation, almost as if it had been there for a long while. It was, to him, more than an inconvenience, and so most probably worth waking up for.

How wrong he was.

It had been five full minutes since the discovery of the insatiable drumming inside Triple H's head, and in these five minutes, he had suppressed the urge to vomit three times. He moaned into his pillow like he would when he was a child, eyes squeezed together tightly. The slightest movement would send his stomach into movement, similar to that of a washing machine drum. Saliva gathered in the Game's mouth, and the man knew that he was fighting for a lost cause. He disregarded his pounding headache entirely and raced to the bathroom, only just making it in time. The entire contents of his stomach hurled itself out of his mouth, and for a moment, Triple H felt like crying, and he might have done, had it not been for the feeling that someone was watching him.

"I've been waiting for that all morning," Edge commented, not knowing what else to say. Needless to say, he was keeping a safe distance away from where Paul Levesque was currently sprawled.

Triple H stared at the toilet bowl for another minute before deciding he didn't want to know just how much he drunk last night. He flushed the mess away and turned to face the weary Canadian.

"I decided I'd stay with you and make sure you didn't choke on your own sick during the night." Edge explained, noting the curious look in Triple H's eye.

"That was nice of you," The degenerate mumbled, feeling incredibly sorry for himself. He leaned his head against the wall, willing this headache, and general feeling of illness, away.

Whatever he had done last night, had to be worth this rundown feeling.

There came a distant knock, and quiet though it was, it made Triple H wince. Edge passed him what the man hoped to be a concoction designed to make everything go away, and he accepted gladly. He swallowed the fizzy solution in one go, hearing a brief exchange between Edge and a man take place.

"Is he okay? Can he remember…?"

"No. He hasn't said so yet, but if he could remember, he wouldn't be in this room with me."

"Oh… Well, have you seen…?"

"No," Edge replied sharply to the wrestler, checking to make sure that Triple H was not within complete earshot. "Just go, I'll let him know you and Matt are thinking about him. And if you see anyone else, tell them to stay away for a while, okay?"

Jeff nodded, tugging on his recently dyed hair and left, shrugging to Matt as he went.

Edge closed the door again as softly as he could, but it was almost as if Triple H's senses were twice as sensitive. He could almost feel the vibration that Edge's footsteps made as he re-entered the bathroom.

"It was just Jeff, making sure that you're okay," Edge told Triple H, helping him to stand and move back towards the bed. "I told him to let the others know not to get in your way for a while."

Triple H nodded, trying to think of a distraction for himself. Perhaps thinking about something would keep him occupied for the time it took for the hangover cure to work.

Edge regarded his friend sadly, and sighed, taking a seat next to him. "You need to know what happened last night, Paul." He said bluntly, deciding that being direct was the best way to go about delivering this news. 'Lucky Randy,' He thought dully to himself, 'He got away whilst he could.'

"But I guess I need to know if you can remember anything… At all from last night?"

Triple H frowned. He couldn't have wanted a better reason to think about things. Obviously something must have happened for to Edge to sound so concerned, so jumpy… After a few moments, he shook his head.

"The last thing I remember is being in a bar talking to Ric." Triple H said, delivering to Edge a fatal blow.

Edge groaned and threw himself back to lie on the bed, ignoring Triple H's moan at the sound of the springs creaking.

This was not going to be easy.

**((Flashback))**

The bar had a welcoming atmosphere to it, even if the locals regarded the performers with looks of strained contempt at their unusual rowdiness. The red lighting shone down on the gambling, laughing and drinking men, who were dressed in what seemed to be the first thing to come out of their suitcases, their hair still damp from the showers.

The division of wrestlers in the area was evident. There was the more subdued group, who took to simply talking in a corner and moving every so often for a drink. Next to it was the crowd that had every person in it competing for everybody's attention at once, contributing to most of the noise, and dirty looks. The main culprit of this noise was Matt Hardy, who had taken it upon himself to make himself look like a jackass through the way of drinking.

And finally, there were those who sat at the bar, drinking and talking amiably with each other. Those too exhausted to be able to make too much noise, those who had had a particularly rough evening.

One of those was Triple H who, sure as hell, was talking to Ric Flair, sipping on beers. Triple H was on his sixth of these, whilst Ric was a bit ahead of him, being on his seventh. Shawn was next to them, staring sulkily into his orange juice. It had been over half an hour since he had said a word, and he could barely even hear Triple H's voice now over the one in his head.

This voice demanded answers. It wanted reasons, and certainly was not considering the consequences of the actions willing to be taken for such answers to be discovered. Shawn narrowed his eyes sharply, draining his orange juice and standing at Triple H's side. He jabbed his finger into the man's arm to grab his attention.

In response, the man threw his arm around Shawn's shoulders, to which Shawn merely shrugged him off. The look of irritation went unnoticed by a tipsy Triple H.

"What's up with you, Shawn? You haven't spoken in ages." The Game observed, once again draping his arm around the wrestler's shoulders. His words were not yet slurred, but his cheeks had acquired an ember-like glow. Ric turned back around on his seat to order his eighth drink, slamming down his empty glass on the wooden surface of the bar itself.

"I have something I need to discuss with you," Shawn managed, his teeth forced together in rage. His thumb stroked over the hand curled into a loose fist as he spoke, as if he hoped that a consequence of this talk would not be violence.

That hope was soon to vanish.

"Go ahead! You know you can talk to me about anything." Triple H said, raising his voice above the laughter from Matt's audience. It was rather amusing seeing the star let himself go, without much consideration for those around him.

"Good… Paul…" Shawn snapped, folding his arms and taking a standoffish position.

"I want to know why you won't let me secure a pinfall in any of our tag team matches."

For a moment, the Game merely sat there, regarding Shawn as if he had no idea what he was talking about. Slow the realisation dawned upon him that he needed to say something, and so he gave his friend a wide grin.

"Does it matter who secures the pinfalls? The only thing that matters it that DX is back, and we're the new faces of RAW, the people who Vince is relying on. We're even more popular than Cena, and he's the champ!"

"Well, I don't care about how popular we are, or how much merch we're selling. And, yes, for future reference, it _does_ matter who secures a pinfall. I want to know why you won't let me do it, because I haven't officially won us a match in four months." Shawn snapped. The irritating thing was that Paul did not seem to understand how important this was to Shawn, how much this had been bothering him.

At first, Shawn hadn't minded. DX was back, the fans loved their antics and they were having solid, long feuds. They were main-eventers again, cutting promos, performing perfectly together in the ring, and having the time of their lives. No longer did they have to be separate due to their current roles, no longer would they have to drive alone. It was expected for them to be together as often as they were to make their on-screen personas work.

But after a few weeks, Shawn had begun to notice a pattern in the DX matches. Shawn would always be struggling against an opponent, say; Randy Orton, and he would be losing the match. After a few minutes of this, Shawn would scrape together enough energy to throw Randy off him, and struggle into the corner to make a tag.

And Triple H would come in, and a huge roar of approval would come from the crowd, and he would have enough momentum to keep both members of Rated RKO down and out, and he would win the match by pinfall, usually with the Pedigree. Either that, or Triple H would disrespect Shawn's strength by having him Super Kick someone; They would merely stagger, and fall into the Pedigree.

This was not right. Shawn's finisher would knock many a superstar down and out. Back in the day, it alone would have won him a last man standing match.

And still in the corner after the pinfall, battered and bruised, lying on the apron, clinging onto the ropes, would be Shawn Michaels, who had done little more than make his friend look strong for weeks on end, without any reward. And, as Shawn recalled, that evening, when he had been staring up at the ropes, he decided it was time to bring it up. No longer could he allow this chain of events to continue.

Yes, it was a passion of Shawn's to make others look good in the ring. But he almost felt like a jobber, like he wasn't a main-eventer at all, like he was nothing compared to his best friend and fellow degenerate, Triple H.

Triple H pulled Shawn closer to him in a hug. "But we're back together now, and that's all that matters."

"But I just said to you, it _does_ matter!" Shawn cried, pushing his way out of his friend's embrace. "You're not listening to me!"

"Shawn, relax," Triple H laughed, taking the beer Ric passed him, "We're doing great together, the push we're getting is amazing, and-"

"I DON'T CARE!" Shawn yelled, knocking the beer out of his friend's hand, smashing the glass on the floor. Half the bar quieted; even Matt and his raucous crowd silenced, and for a moment, no one said a word. "You owe me an excuse, pal." Shawn declared, pointing a finger into Triple H's broad chest.

Triple H stood, close to Shawn. Their faces were inches apart, their serious faces highlighted by the red lighting, striking shadows at odd angles to create curves and graces of which the world had never seen. Had this been a less tense moment, they would have admired each other's appearance.

But now was the not the time to be doing that. Triple H twisted his foot as it crunched upon the broken glass that lay scattered across the floor.

"You want to know why? In front of all these people, you want to know why?" Triple H hissed, his words like a poison in his mouth that needed spitting out.

Shawn's eyes never left the Game's. "I don't care that I made a scene. What I care about is getting some fucking answers because I'm sick of your bullshit." He ignored the gasp, too, that arose from the gathering behind him, tempted to tell them to fuck off, too. Now was not the time to be worrying about morals and religion.

Triple H sneered down at Shawn, the one he considered family, and said in a low snarl;

"I won't let you secure a pinfall in case you become the spoiled, arrogant little bastard you were back in the day."

Shawn didn't allow Triple H the decency of having a reaction time. He begun to strike at his friend, and almost immediately felt broad arms pull at him, trying to get him away, stop him from doing this, but now _Paul_ was fighting back, but Shawn didn't care, he just wanted to hurt the other man…

**((End of Flashback.))**

Triple H had been silent throughout the storytelling, Edge simply talking himself into a tenser quietness. He had half the mind to walk out and leave the degenerate to his thoughts, but before he could do so, the man rushed to the bathroom once more.

The sound of vomiting could be heard for the next ten minutes.

**((Meanwhile…))**

Shawn was sat before the Agents and Chairman of WWE apprehensively. Whether his request - or rather, his demand – would be met was yet to be seen, but nothing had been said to him as of yet concerning his desires.

"And you say that you are happy wrestling for our business?" Another agent asked, seated next to Shane McMahon, there for educational purposes.

Shawn nodded. "It's the best job anyone could hope for. I love my job and I love this industry, for all its flaws."

The Agent exchanged a glance with Vince, and clasped his hands together solemnly, clearing his throat in true businessman style. "Shawn… No disrespect to you, but when one asks to leave the company, but insists it is good to you, one must wonder why you would want to go."

Shawn seemed unfazed by the Agent's quick mind. Then again, being able to forge links and find references between two unrelated things were ideal traits for an Agent.

The fact that Shawn loved to wrestle was irrelevant. The matter of why he wanted to leave was for him to know alone, and he would not reveal such details to anybody.

Vince, sitting directly before Shawn, had said little, but he turned to the Agents and gestured for them to leave. "I can handle this." The Agents, whilst obeying Vince's command, threw Shawn a scowl on the way out, to which the Heartbreak Kid merely smiled, waving. The movement of his cheek muscles pulled on his cuts and bruises, and he winced quietly.

"Shawn, he does have a point," Vince said bluntly, to which Shawn rolled his eyes, much like a child would, "But I won't pressure you to tell me. Just remember that I am always here to talk to you." The Chairman cleared his throat, a pre-arranged signal for Shane.

"As you know, we can't just release you from your contract. It wouldn't make economic sense." Shane began, in a tone worryingly like his father's, "The standard amount of notice that you must hand to us is one month, meaning that you have four weeks remaining on RAW, should you choose to go through with what you said last night. We can't simply release a major superstar such as yourself with no reason, no matter how much you may want us to.

"During your next four episodes on RAW, you will have absolute creative control over your matches, provided that you maintain some sort of rivalry with Rated RKO. Any match type is acceptable, and any methods you use to win such matches are also acceptable." Shane paused, regarding Shawn with a look of anxiety.

"But I don't want you to go." Shane continued, when Shawn said nothing, "And I doubt highly that WWE fans would want you to leave, too."

Shawn clenched and unclenched his fists, eyes oddly bright. He prayed that Shane and Vince would put it down to the peculiar lighting in the room, and not down to tears.

He had been in this business for so many years now… Could he really give this up? Could he honestly give up his career over a mere argument, over somebody whose opinion meant so little and yet so much to him at the same time?

"Despite the obvious fact that you want me to stay…" Shawn began, squinting slightly as he stared directly ahead, seeing nothing at all of the people before him, "…I don't have any other choice. It's not your fault, and I've got no one to blame but myself… And no, I won't join TNA when I leave," He added, misinterpreting the look on Vince's face.

Nevertheless, Vince seemed somewhat comforted by this announcement. "Very well… I can see that we have no other choice but to draw up the necessary paperwork." He hesitated, and sighed sorrowfully at the downcast man before him. "I am very sorry."

Shawn's lower lip twitched, as if he were about to cry, but again he held back. No matter how much this was hurting him, despite the fact he would have nowhere to go… He had to leave. He could not continue to be ignored and abused by his best friend any longer… By this incredible man who he loved so much…

"It's not your fault…" Shawn managed, one last time, before drawing a very long, deep breath. He slowly stood, and felt as if he were floating on air, and when he moved to shake Vince and Shane's hands, that he was gliding, not walking. He felt oddly out of place, like his head was detached from his body and he could no longer feel any pain. He did not feel sickness nor pain after the discussion: Just a strange, airy numbness.

Shawn turned and left the room, not hearing nor feeling his feet touch the ground. He walked to a place he always went to sit down and think – On one of the large crates full of costumes, usually reserved for the divas. He pulled himself up, not feeling the burn of his muscles as he did so, or the pain when he kicked the side of the box with his knee. He ran a hand through his matted hair, and allowed himself to cry, emotions suddenly coming back to him in an unpleasant rush. Shawn buried his face in the knees he'd brought up to his chest, pressing down so hard it made his cheek ache.

"…Shawn?"

He allowed himself a few more quiet sobs before forcing himself to look up. He'd never liked crying in public, and did not appreciate it when others did so to him. To Shawn, it was not a sign of weakness, but something that should be practised in absolute solitude.

"Hey J.R." Shawn managed, smiling down weakly at the RAW commentator, his features trembling. The man below him appeared concerned, and he wouldn't want to bother him by adding to his already heavy burdens. So, Shawn would pretend that he was crying of happiness, or something similar.

"What's bothering you all the way up there?" J.R. asked, taking off his hat as he squinted up at Shawn in the light, its positioning behind him making him look almost angelic.

A rather broken angel, but to be a man of such perfection was better than nothing, right?

Shawn shook his head, a stronger smile appearing on his face now. What made Shawn great as a performer was not just his ability to wrestle, but also his ability to act. He could cry, look surprised, be happy, and convey his emotions to the audience to a level where they would believe his tears and smiles were genuine. Shawn could even mask physical pain, and so thought that its emotional counterpart would be no different.

"I'm just remembering the good times, back when I was a heel" Shawn said fluently, swinging his legs slightly against the crate, being careful not to overdo the movements.

J.R. stared back up at Shawn, and looked directly into his azure eyes. "And you're a complete bull-shitter, Shawn." He said calmly, with no change in his tone of voice at all.

The expletive made Shawn flinch, and that was the opening that J.R. needed. "Shawn, I have known you too long to see when you're in work-mode. Whatever it is that's bugging you, you're going to tell me right now. And I will know that you are telling the truth, because you have never lied before in your life."

"Once," Shawn answered, miserably, reminiscent of the legendary moment in Montreal.

"Oh, stop," J.R. sighed, dragging a small box along the floor so he could pull himself up to sit beside a poignant Heartbreak Kid, now not at all in wrestling-mode, but rather the get-me-the-hell-out-of-this-mess mode. "What happened that evening was brought onto Bret by himself, and the only reason why he became famous was because of the Montreal incident. Just don't tell him I said that."

For a moment, Shawn almost managed to genuinely smile.

"That's better," J.R. said pleasantly, but before he could say another word, his phone went off. He brought it out and answered.

"Hello?"

"J.R…. It's Vince." From the strained weariness in Vince's voice, the announcer understood the man's need to simply talk. "I need you to meet me at the next Arena, tomorrow at 12 noon sharp. Tell everyone you see that there will be a meeting, apart from Shawn… It is vitally important that they attend."

J.R. blinked several times, but nodded slowly. "All right-y. I'll do that for you Vince, I was just about to go back to the Hotel and pack anyway."

"Okay. Make sure to be on time." He hung up. J.R. turned back to face Shawn, but he was no longer there. He had left J.R., despite his obvious plea for help, despite J.R. being someone who cared enough to want to understand Shawn just a little better through the sad experience. He shook his head, and eased himself down off the crate, heading back to the Hotel solemnly.

**((Meanwhile…))**

"I'm going to take a shower, is that okay with you?" Cena asked, pulling off his shirt as he wriggled out of Randy's arms. It had been a day they'd spent solely with each other, doing little else but talk and drink beers in the hotel room, relaxing after the frenzy that occurred every Monday night.

Randy rolled his eyes, sitting up and stretching, glaring at Cena mockingly. "No, what you mean is, 'I can't be arsed to do the packing, so I'll spend so long in the shower that Randy will have to do it.'"

Cena flashed Randy a wide smile. "Exactly." He gave the Legend Killer a brief kiss on the cheek. "See you in half an hour."

Randy rolled his eyes again, sighing at the pile of John Cena merchandise tossed carelessly at the side of their bed. He bent down to retrieve the baggy camouflage pants, folding them. Today was Tuesday – Later that night they would drive to the airport, and would be in the next city before 1am at the latest.

Something fell out of Cena's pants, and automatically Randy went to pick it up. He held it in his hands for a moment.

It was a package, wrapped neatly in very thin paper. It wasn't very heavy, and Randy wondered at what it could be. He contemplated opening it, but paused, thinking.

What if this was a present intended for him at a later date? Silly John must have left it lying around and forgotten. Giggling to himself, Randy wrapped the package up inside Cena's clothes to avoid it getting broken, and resumed his cleaning, thinking of all the things it could be.

Tsumi-Amethyst: This took me… Longer than I expected. But it's okay, right? Ehh, I'm a noob. Well, that's what I put as an answer on my science paper anyways. XD Any reviews or criticism is welcome; I try to return all reviews with a thank you at the very least. Thank you so much for reading this far. I hope you liked this, and I plan on updating very soon.

xoxo


	4. Chapter 3: It never came

Tsumi – Amethyst: I want to personally go out to everyone's houses and give them a cookie for every kind word or form of critique that they gave me. Really. It does help, and my grateful thanks goes to those who did take the time to offer me some advice, or a few words. I love you all very much. : D Now, onto the fan fiction, since I've left writing this so long now. I apologise for that. I cannot begin to express my hatred for standardised testing, and my mediocre writing skills. Enjoy!!

After leaving J.R. atop a storage box, Shawn considered the possibilities available to him thanks to the creative control clause in his contract. He was well aware of the numerous opportunities that this allowed him – Last man standing and Hell in the cell matches, just to name a few - but he had already decided what to do first. It would involve giving Triple H a little punishment, as well as heightening the feud between DX and Rated RKO.

Shawn walked slowly back to the hotel, trying to avoid eye contact with fellow pedestrians. His surroundings were ignored: the sounds of city life not quite reaching his ears.

He was deep in thought. He was trying to understand how for years he could endure the vicious lies of strangers, and yet when a best friend struck him with cruel truths, it had pushed him into retirement. Better still, he was unsure as to how such emotions of hurt, anger and shame, should be conveyed to the cause of all this at their next confrontation.

Shawn's initial response was that he should do so with a firm level of brutality. But his conscience would cut in, smugly reminding him that doing any such thing would result in a very panicked HBK, wondering if his friendship would survive this argument. And then it would be Shawn, not Triple H, struggling to repair their fractured relationship.

At this thought, a war of honesty and resentment began in his mind, and Shawn was left, a neutral observer, cuddled inside a mist of uncertainty. He was completely at a loss as to what he should do for the best.

He sighed, blinking up at the downcast sky. The day had suddenly turned cold, and he wondered just how long it had been raining for. Without so much as a grumbled complaint, Shawn tied his hair back.

It would be unwise; Shawn knew, from experience, to begin a discussion – No, an argument – With Triple H, lacking preparation. On the few occasions that the two had argued, The Game had managed to chip away slowly with malicious little comments until Shawn's resolve gave way, his body physically and emotionally spent. Paul did not need to expend himself in terms of saying nasty things. Shawn was naturally troubled by what others had to say, and to hear such obscenities aimed at him from a close friend was more than disheartening.

Of course, Shawn had formed ideas that he had almost convinced himself with. He wanted to believe that he was bitter towards Triple H, that he was the innocent here, that none of this was his fault, and that he should be issued with an apology. Yet behind that mask lay the truth; Shawn was a hurt man. To fight with one's best friend is unpleasant to say the least, but for Shawn, it was simply a degrading experience he would rather not bother with. For many years, Triple H had _been _Shawn's life, and so it only made sense that his actions affected the emotional state that the Heartbreak Kid was in.

Paul had been the one Shawn solely confided in. He was the one who brushed off the insults aimed at his friend. He was the only man who Shawn would believe when he was told the rumours about him were not true. He was the one who had absolute control over how Shawn felt, because their moods were decided by the others. He was the man that Shawn loved… Even more so now than when they'd been together.

Elaborating further on these feelings was something Shawn did not think of as a priority on his list of things to do. It could only affect him professionally, and that was sure to be a drain on his physical well being as well.

After doing his little bit on RAW, he would leave this city and go home to his children, those who were too young to understand what he was going through. His parents would take him in, and he could talk to his brother's and sister once more, resting until the time came for him to do something about his last few appearances on RAW.

But that would not be for another week at the most, he realised, entering the hotel briskly. It was hardly the most ideal of arrangements for one who had just argued with his sole travelling partner. Shawn, if he were to follow his current travelling plans, would be subjected to Triple H's presence, which alone had deterred him from competing next Monday night on RAW.

He walked along the narrow corridor to the end of the lobby, taking the stairs. He wasn't in the talkative mood, and taking the elevator would almost certainly mean facing someone who had been present last night, when the incident took place.

It was rather ironic, then, that he was going to knock on John Cena's door. His mind drifted to the package he'd given the man previously, but thought no more about it when he rapped his red, raw knuckles against the door.

Unsurprisingly, Randy was the one to answer.

"Hey there, Shawn. Wanna come in?" Randy asked, briskly, barely stopping even to lean on the doorframe, as was customary with the Legend Killer. "I'm just packing our things for tomorrow." He explained, throwing another batch of what looked like dirty underwear into the haphazardly packed suitcase open on his bed.

Shawn raised an eyebrow at the unconventional organisation of Randy's suitcase, but let it slide, thankful for his silence towards the happenings of last night.

"Are you and John driving to the next venue?" Shawn asked directly. He was distantly aware that his voice was more hoarse than usual, but put it down to the weather; His masculine side refused to admit that it was because he had just handed in his notice to Vince, that this time, it really would be over for him. No one off performances, no comeback.

"Err…" Randy said distractedly, bunching two socks together and throwing them into his case, "… Yeah, we're driving. I guess you want us to take you there?"

Shawn nodded, fidgeting with the zipper on Randy's suitcase idly. "If you don't mind."

Randy nodded. "We leave early. I can't stand the traffic, but at least we'll be moving," He said, sitting down on the bed beside Shawn. His face looked uncharacteristically serious. "You've not spoken to Paul, then?"

"I'm waiting for him to speak to me," Shawn said quietly, quickly. "I didn't do anything wrong, but no doubt he'll act like a little kid about this."

Randy listened for a moment to the rain, which was now beating down in such a way that it had drowned out the noises of John showering. "I agree with you in a way, but you and Hunter are great friends. You'll work this out." He said at length, trying to sound bright and encouraging.

Shawn shrugged a shoulder lazily. 'Perhaps,' he thought to himself, as he regarded the Legend Killer placidly, 'it would be best to keep quiet about my retirement. I'll let Vince do it.

Randy dimly heard the sound of John flicking off the shower in the other room, and went over to knock on the door to the bathroom.

"Shawn's here, don't come out!" He yelled, before returning to sit back on the bed with the older wrestler.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Shawn said hastily, appreciating the exasperation one must feel at having an unexpected guest when your partner is in the next room. They could just skip the stripping stage and get right down to the good parts… Shawn assumed. "What time do you want me to get here for?"

Randy seemed to understand. He looked grateful. "9am."

Shawn nodded and slid off the bed to leave, smiling at Randy as he left. It had been a while since he'd been around the younger superstars in the WWE, and he was glad that he could make those he worked with look better, stronger.

In a matter of minutes, Shawn's outlook on talking had changed. He now wanted nothing more than to bitch about one Paul Levesque with someone, anyone – Just as long as it wasn't the man himself. He wasn't quite ready to talk with him yet.

This in mind, he took the elevator. To his disappointment, no one was in it, but he rode up to the fourth floor all the same, and approached his door casually, key card in hand. He swiped it through the lock and entered his room.

And who would be sitting on his bed, but Paul Levesque himself? Shawn's eyebrows pulled towards each other, his expression changing into one of disquiet. Suddenly, his desire to talk was thrown into question, muted by the realisation that he had no idea what to say.

He decided to start off small.

"Paul," Shawn muttered quietly, kicking the door shut behind him. The sound of it fitting into its frame made Triple H wince, once again regretting his actions of the previous evening.

"We need to talk," He moaned instead, clutching his head sombrely.

Shawn threw his hands up in the air, frustrated. "So you wanna talk? You did enough of that last night, pal," He drawled, pointing at Paul with a numb finger.

Triple H cringed, partly from the pain of his headache, but partly from his friends' words.

"Shawn, I had a bit too much to drink last night, and some things were said that shouldn't have been said, so-"

"No, because I meant every word that I said." Shawn shot, interrupting the mandatory speech given to appease every friend who's ever been spoken badly to. "So how about you come up with some reasons why I shouldn't hit you again?"

Triple H fell silent at Shawn's aggressiveness. 'I've really crossed a line,' he realised dully, gripping his hair firmly, tugging at it.

"Well, look," Triple H started, seeing Shawn shift his weight from one foot to another as he spoke, "That's the truth, Shawn. I'd had too much to drink last night; you know I talk crap when I'm like that. Just forget about what I said, all right?"

For once, Shawn was almost able to sympathise with the countless diva's he'd encountered who'd called a man tactless, thoughtless, pathetic.

"How can I forget what you said?!" Shawn snarled, frustrated by his friend's lack of finesse, "You know it, I know it – There was at least some truth in the stuff you gave me last night. I used to be arrogant, I used to be controlling, and yeah, I went too far on a lot of people. I will be the first to admit that. But I thought that you, of all the people I know, would get that I'm NOT like that anymore! And I mean, even if it was a few pinfalls, I wouldn't get too hyped up about it, but that's ALL it would have taken. ONE PINFALL! Is that too much to ask?!"

"Shawn, you've spent your life making other wrestlers look good, I don't see why you should stop now at me, your best friend." Triple H snapped, reasoning with himself that being polite and apologetic would get him nowhere.

Shawn squinted fiercely at Paul, wondering whether this was the same man he'd spent countless hours joking and wrestling with. Although nothing had changed about Triple H physically, the look on Shawn's face suggested that the other changes had somehow manifested themselves on the face of his hung over degenerate friend.

"You don't _need _to be made to look good in front of others," He answered coldly, grimacing to the extent that the bruise on his cheek ached, "But I want the fans to know I can operate without you. And just so you know, I won't be driving with you next week. Oh yeah, and you won't have to put up with me on RAW, because I'll only be there for five minutes. You're going to be in a Handicap match against Rated RKO. No doubt the great Triple H will win, single-handedly." Shawn muttered scornfully, kicking the door beside him open. It led to the hallway. "Now get out. Find someone else to share a room with."

"You're throwing me out?!" Triple H cried, in obvious disbelief. It seemed obvious that this conversation hadn't gone as planned. "Just hang on a minute, Shawn." He continued, prepared to go into another lengthy explanation of his actions, but Shawn cut across him first.

"No, Paul. Just get out, I can't face dealing with you at the moment." Shawn sighed, his voice exhausted from shouting. He kicked at the door again, which had slowly been swinging shut. "Just go. Get somebody to bring your stuff down later. I don't care who, just leave."

Triple H stared at Shawn for a moment longer, agape, before launching himself off the bed, marching past the Heartbreak Kid, and out into the corridor without so much as a backward glance, a look of solid irritation on his face.

Shawn would have liked to say to people later that evening that he didn't need Triple H. That he didn't care about the man's future career, or his health.

That he had cried, but only because he had missed an opportunity to hit The Game. Because crying wasn't something you did when you were in a situation like Shawn's – You had to tough it out, and the only thing stopping each man from apologising, or from accepting each other's apologies, would be their pride. Another friend or colleague would then point this out, and both men would realise their stupidity and apologise to each other simultaneously.

It's a shame that what happens in Hollywood doesn't reflect what happens in real life.

Instead, Shawn sunk down to the floor, fisted handfuls of his hair, and tugged until the sensation was drowned out by the tense quiet of his sobbing. A tear seeped from his left eye, but that was the only one he allowed himself to shed.

After what could have been hours of this moping, thinking of how things could have been had he remained silent, Shawn gathered himself. He struggled to his feet, and moved towards the drawers that contained his best friend's ring attire.

There were many dishonourable things that Shawn could have done at this point. He had known people to urinate on, set fire to, and even bleach the clothing of someone who had done him or her wrong. Instead, he set about quietly folding the clothes before him, and arranging them into Triple H's suitcase.

When Edge knocked on the door an hour later, his mouth set to ask questions, he thought better of it, and received the suitcase without so much as a greeting.

"His money is in there, in with his tooth brush in a small bag at the bottom." Shawn said quietly, his voice maintaining a balance of calmness and sadness.

Edge nodded, clapped a hand to Shawn's shoulder – as a sign of respect, really – and left, dragging the hefty suitcase behind him. Shawn watched him leave, and waited for the wave of relief and serenity that was said to accompany the departure of a loved one's belongings.

It never came.

**The following day…**

"That will be $10, please."

Jeff gave a quiet squeal and handed over the money delightedly to the somewhat bemused service station attendant. He turned around, having every intention of hiding his special treat for sampling later, when he walked straight into his brother's shoulder. He sidestepped the entertainer, only to be cornered once again between his body and the sweets rack.

"Jeffery, I know that your hair dye only costs $8:50," Matt said sternly, watching as his brother anxiously tugged on his red locks, "So what else have you bought?"

Jeff shrugged in an attempt to look nonchalant. He tried to casually force the brightly coloured sweets into his back pocket, but Matt was too quick for him. He caught his wrist and sighed at the packet of Skittles gripped loosely in Jeff's hand.

"Jeff, you _know_ why I don't let you have these on long trips, don't you?" He asked, edgily.

Jeff nodded, staring down at his trainers, reminded suddenly of the days when he would do this in the Headmaster's office at school for fighting.

"Go on, then. Tell me why," Matt demanded, refusing to budge as Jeff tried to push his way past him.

"Because I get hyper off Skittles, Matty," Jeff answered in a long, slow drone, "And you don't want me hyper when we're travelling because I'll piss you off a lot."

"That's right. Now, I'm going to take these off you so that you can't have them until we get to the hotel in about three hours, all right? It's for the greater good." Matt reasoned, smiling at his brother's facial expression. He hadn't seen Jeff look so despondent since Vince had announced he would be dropping the Intercontinental Title to Umaga.

Jeff sniffed pointedly, and walked into Matt's shoulder deliberately, making a beeline for the food court. Matt shook his head, chuckled a little, and followed him, taking a seat on Triple H's table.

"You look dead," Jeff announced flippantly. Matt rolled his eyes at his brother's lack of tact, and made a point of shoving the Skittles into his back pocket before speaking.

"How are you feeling, Paul?"

Hunter truly did look unwell. Obviously yesterday he had been recovering from his excessive drinking, but today his skin was pale, and the rings beneath his eyes more pronounced. His hair hung limply across his shoulders, no attempt made to tame it. The man had also, Matt noted, avoided trimming his beard, something that was rarely forgotten.

"Like shit," Paul answered sullenly, bluntly. It was a straight to the point summary of his entire aura.

Matt shot Jeff a look that advised him not to speak (to which he received a pout and a mouthed 'You're no fun.').

"Well, have you spoken to Shawn yet about what happened?" Matt asked, trying a more direct approach. He decided that Triple H did not want to solve a series of clues in order to realise what it was he was asking him about.

"Yeah. But he basically just told me to fuck off out of his hotel room. I had to send Edge to get my stuff later." He responded dully. Yesterday, Edge had recommended that he kept quiet about the conversation he had had with Shawn, so not to aggravate the situation further by having the gossips come after him. So far, the advice had proven to be of use.

And whilst Triple H understood that Matt Hardy was perhaps not fishing for information about this 'scandal', he was still wary about talking to him about it. It would be better to keep quiet, to act as if it didn't bother him in the slightest, because that was the manly thing to do. He couldn't talk about his emotions because, well, that would be considered gay.

Before Matt could answer, he heard his phone ring. "Jeff, answer it," He muttered, to which Jeff's hand dived into his back pocket, answering quietly.

"Hello?"

"Hi Matt. It's Vince. We need you to come to a meeting tomorrow at the arena. It will probably be in the function room there at 12 noon. It's had to be postponed because of some useless idiots using it today. It's a mandatory meeting." Vince explained, sounding slightly angry at the thought of another person using his precious function room.

Jeff nodded, before remembering that Vince couldn't see what he was doing. He did that often on phones. "I'll let Matt know, Mr McMahon."

There was a slight pause. "God Damnit Jeff, I can never tell you two apart. You must also attend. Tell everyone you know, I have a very important announcement to make."

"All right. Thanks for letting us know. Bye." Jeff said, hanging up. He replaced the phone in Matt's pocket, and the older man continued to speak with Triple H.

"Look, you and Shawn have been through a lot together. You've had to sacrifice parts of your career for him before – Like with the curtain call incident, remember that? He felt like shit about that. He hated the fact that you had to spend a year of your career putting other people over, because he knew you were better than that. Besides, you were way over than any of the superstars you helped out," Matt reasoned, sipping on his lukewarm coffee. "Shawn's spent a lot of time making other people look good, and he knew that most of the time it would be the only reason people would work with him. He was okay with that, but not many people could stand to be near him. I think he knew that, too. Because he used to be a mean little shit who pissed us all off at one point.

"But he isn't like that anymore. He's apologised for how he acted and we've accepted those. And let's face it; you _haven't_ let him secure a pinfall. I'm sure the fans won't think any less of you for giving him one every once in a while. They've probably noticed too, and they might end up hating you for it. So find Shawn and talk all this over before he really starts to hate you." Matt said with a smile, downing the rest of his coffee.

Triple H had nodded in agreement throughout Matt's speech, and though he said nothing, he stood and walked off, hopefully to look for Shawn. Matt smiled and leaned back in his chair, enjoying the feeling of sitting down without being restrained by a seatbelt.

It was then that he heard a quiet giggle from his left. He glanced at his brother, worried by the huge grin on his brother's face.

"Jeff?"

The younger man giggled, and Matt noticed a neon green packet flutter to the floor behind him. He didn't even need to look at the logo to know what it was.

"Jeffy. Tell me you didn't…" Matt asked, in the tone of voice that suggested he knew exactly what his brother had done. He touched his back pocket and, sure enough, the packet of skittles was gone.

Jeff stuck his multicoloured tongue out at Matt in reply, and took off at high speed towards the Gentlemen's. Unfazed, Matt jumped over his chair and tore after him, seeing a blur of colour rush into a cubicle and hearing the sound of it locking.

Jeffery Nero Hardy then spent the next few minutes of his life with his fingers stuffed into his ears, humming contentedly to block out the noise of his brother hammering on the cubicle door.

**Randy, Cena and Shawn.**

"Okay, you've been pissing me off all day, why are you acting so weird?" John asked Randy, pulling harshly on the gear stick as he abruptly pulled to a stop, squinting ahead at the sudden bout congestion on the motorway.

Randy had, since John's shower yesterday, been acting strange. He had been sweeter, almost – As if aggravating Cena would be the last thing that he wanted. But after half a day of Randy's politeness and agreement on most things, John was finding himself sick of it.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Randy said mildly, reminding himself that whatever it was in that package had better be worth a day or two of acting like someone else. "Here I am, acting nice for a change, and all you can do is criticise me for it."

John rolled his eyes, rolling the car forwards several inches. He looked in his rear-view mirror, smiling sympathetically at the travelsick Heartbreak Kid. He had unbuckled his seatbelt and laid himself out on the back seats, looking ill.

"Are you all right back there?"

Shawn looked in the mirror and nodded once, not wanting to elaborate on the unease in his stomach.

He knew that Vince would announce his retirement sooner rather than later. He would want to arrange final autograph signings, TV advertisements, special match types, and a huge party at the end of it all, as a thank you for dedicating himself to the company in the way that he had. It was the way that Vince worked, which often came as a surprise to the newer athletes, who seemed to be under the impression that Vince was as corrupt as his wrestling persona. Shawn was one of the lucky few to understand that this was wrong.

Shawn thought once more about leaving the company. He had already left twice, both due to injuries he thought he would never recover from, but this was it. There would be no special comebacks, no colour commentary contracts, and no writing agreement. After four weeks, Shawn would be rid of the WWE, and rid of those who had wronged him over the years.

He wondered how his workmates would react to him leaving. Would they be happy? Would they be sad, or even shed a tear for him? Or would they perhaps be indifferent to their loss, continuing onwards without so much as a second thought for him?

Whilst Shawn pondered this, John's eyes fixed themselves back onto the road ahead which, predictably, hadn't moved.

'Great,' He thought dully, 'What a whack-ass travel day this has turned out to be. I've got a Forty-something year old who won't stop moaning, and a Legend Killer who's acting up… Perfect.'

John glared ahead at the road. He just relished the thought of a further three hours of this. His eyes raked over the cars that he could see, searching for any familiar ones. The Hummer ahead of him by two spaces may belong to Johnny 'Bad Gimmick' Nitro, but he couldn't be sure. There was a Rover to his right, which was having difficulties in containing Mickie James, an ill looking Candice Michelle, along with the singing Maria Kanellis and Torrie Wilson. Cena cringed at the sight, wondering just what the women's division was coming to.

He moved the car a few more inches forwards, and glanced once more in the rear-view mirror. He could see the Hardy's car behind, and chuckled at the sight. Matt had his head against the steering wheel, exhausted, annoyed, or both, whilst Jeff fidgeted with his hair, things on the dashboard, and the knobs in the car that he was unfamiliar with. He flicked on the wipers and watched the reaction, fascinated, whilst Matt continued to knock his head against the steering wheel.

It was odd. They were all celebrities in their own rights, and yet they still acted like 'normal' human beings. Shawn was going through a tough time; Jeff was happy playing with whatever knobs and switches he could find; The futures of the women's division remained oblivious to their appalling wrestling skills; Randy seemed to be excited, as if waiting for something… John rested his arms on the steering wheel, moving the car forwards just a little more.

He would have to find out whatever it was that Randy was acting so nice for. It was pleasant, but it left Cena feeling terribly uneasy. He was sure that he hadn't caused this unexpected bout of sweetness from the Legend Killer, and he couldn't tell who, or what, else could have done so.

The sound of a car horn sounding from behind him alerted John to the fact that he could move forwards another few feet. He glanced in the rear-view mirror, smiled sheepishly at Matt, but the look went unnoticed. He was too busy berating a hyperactive Jeff for scaring the dreaming John Cena.

**Three hours later.**

A very travelsick Shawn Michaels staggered his way over to the reception desk in the lobby of a large, cosy-looking hotel. His pale face, crumpled clothing and grimace seemed to say it all, and the secretary directed him to the nearest toilets, so that he could vomit.

It was unusual. Shawn was rarely travelsick, and to be so in a business that involves a lot of travel did not bode well. His arms, strangely heavy after vomiting, pulled on the chain to destroy the evidence. He slid the lock to his cubicle back, and was met with the understanding face of Randy Orton. He offered Shawn a drink of the water in his left hand.

"Come on. Drink some of this, and wash your face a little bit. You've gotta keep those young girls screaming at the shows." Randy advised, the final part making Shawn laugh. Though there was little substance behind the laughter, it was a start. It was the most noise he'd made for most of the journey.

Randy stayed with Shawn until he had done as he'd suggested, and then offered him his room key.

"Room 84…" Shawn murmured, tracing his finger over the numbers that had been engraved on the over-sized key ring.

Randy nodded, guiding the older man out into the lobby. "Uh huh. Me and Cena are in room 93, just down the hall from you. You can come in at any time if you need anything." He said, exercising a soft, polite tone reserved usually for speaking with his family.

"Right." Shawn said flatly, picking up his luggage from where it had been discarded in his rush to reach a bathroom. "Thanks for the ride, buddy. I'll buy you and Cena a drink for the trouble later."

Before Randy could protest, Shawn had turned, dragging his suitcase behind him. He located the nearest lift, and rode it up to the second floor. He smiled fleetingly at those who got into the lift after him, and hoped his stomach would settle in time for dinner. He swiped his key card through the slot, and kicked the door open, tugging on his suitcase.

The first thing he noticed was someone's luggage already on one of the beds. The second thing he noticed was Paul Levesque, leaning into the wardrobe supplied in every hotel they stayed in, stilled by the realisation that he wasn't alone. He turned, and offered Shawn a weak smile.

"Hey there."

"What the heck are you doing here?" Shawn snapped, refraining from using any language that compromised his religious beliefs. He was sure his sickness was partially down to his lack of control the other evening, that his sickness was God's way of tapping him on the shoulder, reminding him who he was, and what language he couldn't use.

Triple H straightened his back, hoping that this plan worked. He shrugged as casually as he could, forcing a look of realisation on his face.

"Vince doesn't know we've argued. He's just paired us up together because he didn't know to do anything different." He stepped towards the bed nearest to the Heartbreak Kid. Now he had the ideal opportunity to speak with Shawn, without any outside interference.

"Get out," Shawn hissed, holding the door open. "I don't want to speak to you."

It was almost as if he'd read Paul's mind. Or perhaps they just knew each other too well, as was often the case with tag team partners who spent every waking moment together. Some thought it added to their chemistry together in the ring, but some saw the strain that this caused on their unprofessional friendship apart from the WWE. It was what often caused former partners to turn on each other.

"Come on Shawn, just hear me out!" Paul began, but Shawn simply knocked his head back against the wall behind him, an aggravated look overriding his pale complexion.

"Just leave. I don't want to be anywhere near you. Don't you get it?" He growled, his accent thickening as his anger increased. "Now. For the second time. Get out." He kicked at the door once more, yanking his suitcase out of the way. He felt his arm twist out of place a little, but refused to allow Triple H the opportunity of staying with him to inspect it. He was more than capable of operating on his own, whether it be in the ring, or when left to deal with a minor injury.

Triple H signalled the wardrobe behind him. "I've already begun to unpack. Can't I at least…"

"No," Shawn whispered, a bitter edge lining his words, "I won't fall for that one. If I let you stay, you'll spend the whole time we're together trying to convince me that what I said was wrong. Well, I'm not the only one who's noticed that you're hogging the pinfalls, and they will agree with me, I'm sure, when they find out what I've done."

Triple H saw an opportunity, and decided that him and Shawn talking was a good thing, regardless of the subject. "Why? What have you done?"

Shawn rolled his eyes, just knowing that Paul would have found something to prolong his stay with. "Just go." He growled, kicking at the door once more. "I'll send your stuff down to whoever's room you're sleeping in tonight. They might have to switch and stay with me, but anyone's company is better than yours at the moment. So, for the last time… Get out."

The Game wanted to stay, to say something else, to do absolutely anything to talk with Shawn, but he realised, from the look of resolution on his face, that Shawn was not going to allow it.

He nodded. "All right. I've tried." He raised his hands, in a gesture of surrender. "And I know you won't do anything to my clothes." He went to grab his coat, but the sound of Shawn clearing his throat was enough to discard that idea from his thoughts. He nodded to his former best friend, and placed his hand on the shorter mans shoulder. "I'm sorry." He proclaimed, despite the knowledge that this was futile embracing his entire being.

"And I'm also sorry… About the shit I stirred up with the curtain call incident. I know how sorry you felt for me afterwards, and that's really-"

"Get out."

"… Excuse me?"

Shawn shoved at his suitcase, hard, so that it fell against Triple H's legs, crashing to the ground.

"Get out, get out, GET OUT!" He screamed, taking Triple H by the collar and shoving him out of the door, slamming the door behind him.

How _dare_ he bring up how he felt about that? The audacity of him to bring that up! What happened then had no relevance to their current situation, and the only reason why he brought it up, Shawn thought furiously, kicking at his fallen suitcase, was to make him feel better. So that he, in some way, could obtain the upper hand, because that was what Paul did in arguments.

He couldn't do that if Shawn kept pushing him away, taking the time to avoid him and staying with Randy and Cena as often as he could. That way, he would only have to deal with Paul's childishness when they had to perform on RAW.

Outside room 84, a bemused Triple H was considering shouting something he would regret back through the doorway at him, but somehow managed to keep his emotions under check. Still fractious from that confrontation, he adjusted his t-shirt, in sharp, blunt movements.

'So that didn't go very well,' He admitted to himself, appreciating what an understatement that was, as he strolled briskly down the corridor to knock on Adam Copeland's door, folding his arms as he waited for a response. 'But I've appeased him for the time being. I just need to keep making small, frequent little visits to him over the next few days, and hopefully he'll have calmed down enough to let us talk about what happened in a little more detail. It might take a while, but I know this has affected him more than it has me.'

Before Triple H could address the wave of shame that passed through him at that thought, the door to room 96 opened, and Edge's face took in his on-screen enemy's face and ushered him in without asking any questions. He understood what had happened.

"It's a small step," He assured the King of Kings before he could say anything.

It was in that same instant that Paul decided not to mention the final few minutes of his and Shawn's discussion to Adam. If he did, he may be considered the biggest douche he'd known. After all, it's common sense, to not do anything to exasperate matters, whilst they're still sensitive subjects.

Fortunately, the Legend Killer, who was supposed to be Edge's room partner, noticed Triple H's despondent face, and murmured very quietly to his tag team partner that he was leaving for Cena's room. He was not to be expected back at all. Edge nodded in response, and opened the door so that Randy could exit quickly. He nodded to the older man and left, closing the door behind him as he left.

"Look, even though this hasn't worked for now, you made the effort to go out and speak to him. I think for the rest of the day, you should back off for a little while." The Canadian plotted, searching through his suitcase for something. "And then tomorrow, you're back on the offence with him. Maybe it'll make him realise that you are sorry for what happened, and that you want to make it up to him."

Triple H nodded slowly, his eyes locked on the back of Edge's head. He could only hope that his efforts would not be in vain, that Shawn would eventually realise just how sorry he was.

"… But in the meantime," Edge continued, producing his wallet from deep inside his suitcase with a grin, "It's time to drink."

Though Triple H no longer trusted himself when he drank, he accepted the offer to forget about himself gladly. Because sometimes, it's nice to change personalities, to feel what it is like to be completely oblivious to all earthly duties and responsibilities, even if only for a little while.

He would just have to be wary of the disastrous consequences that this excessive drinking could cause. And so for the rest of the evening, he and Edge stayed well away from the Hotel, where he knew Shawn would not leave.

**At the Arena**

"Come _on,_ Matty!" Jeff begged, tugging on his brother's hand impatiently. "I'm bored!"

"I'm almost done," Matt replied, not heeding Jeff's words. A minute or two later (and after several moments of Jeff stamping his feet, and crying "Finally!" rather loudly), they were making their way to the conference room at the new arena. Members of the production crew were already beginning to construct the set, assigning superstars their locker rooms and wardrobe stylists.

Jeff, tired of Matt's slow pace bounded ahead, moving in such a way that it resembled a skip, opening every door he came across to see if it was the designated meeting room. On his fourth attempt, he found the correct door, and squealed in delight, entering. Matt was soon to follow.

The room did not seem large, but, after glancing around at the faces sat, or squashed, around the room, Matt realised that Vince had ordered every superstar from both rosters to attend this meeting, which may have contributed to making the room appear smaller.

And whenever everyone was called together, they all knew that there was to be a huge announcement. Matt could even see the eager look on Jeff's face as he realised it, too, and he grabbed his brother's hand once more, cramming himself next to Shannon Moore, who had been talking to Gregory Helms.

"Did Vince tell you why we're here?" Matt asked, before Jeff could erupt with a paragraph of meaningless gibberish, caused by yet another sugar rush. It seemed that the man had an endless supply of Skittles in his suitcase, and had crammed his pockets full of as many packets as was possible. Matt hadn't known whether to laugh or cry when Jeff had announced this to him (after eating every last Skittle he had, of course).

Shannon shook his head, his hair yet again resisting gravity. It was almost remarkable that Shannon's hair could make it through an entire match without falling out of place, let alone a meeting in a hot room full of professional wrestlers.

"You," Came a growl from behind Matt.

He turned and looked up, having crouched down slightly so he could speak with Shannon. Triple H was livid as he stood before him, his arm occasionally snapping back to throw off Edge's hand, paying no heed to his begging.

"Yeah. I told Shawn about the curtain call incident, and you know what he did to me? He shoved me out of his goddamn hotel room, throwing his suitcase at me as I went. Great advice, Hardy!" He snarled, silencing the majority of superstars in the room.

Matt, who had been leaning on Jeff for support in his crouched position on the floor, was thrown off balance as his younger brother stood, glaring into the furious eyes of Triple H.

"And did you ever realise, you chubby twat, that Matt never even mentioned bringing this up to Shawn?" Jeff intervened, before Matt could even regain his footing. His happy tone had gone, the child-like qualities of his face replaced with a hard, calculating glare. He shook his head and cried, exasperated, "Of course he'd tell you to fuck off! He's already mad at you, so why would you go about trying to make him even more pissed?"

Now the entire room seemed quiet, and every eye was fixed on the standoff between two very different men. The only sound was of the creaking of someone who had been fortunate enough to have a chair. Matt, who was still at ground level, stared up at his younger brother, able to see the amusing side of the situation. He suppressed a giggle, and Shannon gave him a startled glance. It was almost as if him and Jeff had switched personalities.

And then, someone began to clap. It was very sarcastic, though it worked well for breaking the tension in the room. Jeff peeked around Triple H's stocky frame, and began searching through the sea of heads, until he heard:

"Well done, boy. Chubby twat. That was sheer, honest-to-God brilliance. Couldn't have put it better myself." Came the exaggerated drawl from JBL.

Again, Matt sniggered into the back of his hand. Before Triple H could retort to JBL's sarcastic congratulations to Jeff, Vince and Shane McMahon entered through a door at the other end of the room. They had been saved two seats at the end of a huge oval-shaped, pine table, and one look from the Chairman of the WWE was enough to silence everybody's muted laughter. Jeff, seemingly back to his usual self, stuck his tongue out at the distracted Triple H, sitting back down with his brother.

"Usually when we all get together like this," Vince began, once everyone was quiet. He was addressing his employees in a formal, but pleasant tone, "We give you news of some kind. I'm afraid that I must warn you, this news isn't going to be pretty." Vince's voice remained vacant of its usual edge, allowing his regret to be known to those who knew him well.

Immediately, the superstars understood. There were few times when Vince deliberately delayed telling everyone what had happened to a WWE superstar – Eddie's death had been one of those occasions.

Vince allowed the pause to stretch out for a further moment, before sighing and clearing his throat, wearily.

"I regret to announce that the WWE superstar Shawn Michaels is retiring. He approached me three nights ago, asking to be discharged from the RAW roster, and it is my duty to tell this to all of you." He stated sorrowfully, looking directly at the uneasy, ill-looking Triple H. His look was softer than Jeff's had been, dominated by understanding and concern.

He could tell, from his expression, that he had known nothing about this. And in this emotional state, Vince was unable to make any connections between this and the reasons why Shawn was leaving – Because of course, Shawn had told him nothing about it. He had merely told Vince what to tell his colleagues.

Shane McMahon, who would one day inherit the Chairman's position, bowed his head.

It was now official. Shawn Michaels – The Heartbreak Kid, The Showstopper, Mr Wrestlemania, The Boy Toy – was leaving the company, never to perform again. He who had achieved so much in his illustrious career would be leaving them in four weeks.

Matt heard his brother gasp, and squeezed his fingers tightly. Jeff had always held a lot of respect, as many people did, for Shawn, and to hear that he was leaving was like losing a member of the family. And for a moment, Jeff forgot about being angry with Triple H for snapping at his brother, or about being hyperactive, and stared at his boss, sincerely hoping that at any moment he would break into a fit of laughter, dismissing them all, smiling at his cruel joke.

"Why?" Asked Michael Cole, who was closer to Vince than Matt was. Glancing across, Matt saw that he was crammed between JBL and Chris Benoit. Both athletes wore similar expressions of surprise on their faces. Michael's instincts as a journalist begged to know the reason, and his eyes implored with Vince to reveal all. As he asked, JR lowered his head and took off his hat, thinking of how Shawn had left him two days ago atop a storage crate. Had that been why he'd been crying? Was it because he knew he would no longer be a part of the company he so dearly loved in a matter of weeks?

Vince understood Cole's curiosity, and saw it fit to slake it. "He said that he's lost his smile… His drive to do well in this business." He managed slowly, steadying his voice. "We've had several discussions concerning the issue, and he seems very much set on leaving us. And I've told you all well in advance so that… Appropriate preparations can be made for his departure. After all, we can't let Shawn leave without being treated like the WWE Legend he is."

Cole grimaced at Vince's explanation, dissatisfied. "But wasn't that what he said last time? 'I've just lost my smile…' So does this mean he'll come back, or is he gone for good? Is this his final retirement?"

Vince regarded Cole sadly. Shane shook his head, unable to voice the horrible truth to the Smackdown commentator, genuinely distraught at the thought of Shawn leaving the company.

Triple H, meanwhile, was still standing, but instead of looking awkward and out of place, he looked ill. His lips were slightly parted and could have been shaking. His stomach was abruptly flooded by the desire to vomit, and it was then that he understood the damage that his words, said in a horrid, drunken rage, had caused to his fellow degenerate…

…And soon to be former tag team partner.

Tsumi-Amethyst: Fuck. That was long. And probably boring. And I apologise extensively for that. But regardless, I hope you've somehow managed to enjoy this chapter. School is letting up soon, and that means I will have more time for writing, which is good for all of us. So, thank you for making it this far! Please submit a review and let me know what you thought.


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